Creature Comforts
by jankmusic
Summary: After the fall, Sherlock struggled with dealing with his emotions. This is the story of how Toby the cat helped him open up and Molly Hooper held him until he could sleep for the first time in a week.—Part of the One-a-Day Challenge


Creature Comforts

Prompt: Seeking solace

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.

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"I'm going now. I should be back in an hour or two. Please Sherlock, please don't leave without saying goodbye."

Sherlock Holmes didn't even bother grunting to let the good pathologist know that he heard her. He could feel her eyes burning into the back of his skull, but he hardly glanced in her direction, knowing she was hesitating at the door. When he made no move to respond, she sighed and left her flat, softly closing the door behind her.

It had been one week since he jumped off the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, 24 hours since he last saw John Watson at his grave, and only twenty minutes since Doctor Molly Hooper cleaned his assortment of wounds and announced that she was doing some shopping for the flat (but Sherlock deduced that she was mostly shopping for him).

He exchanged hardly any words with Molly since his jump, mostly lying on her couch in a semi catatonic state. He allowed her to check his injuries, change his bandages, and generally fuss over him. It was only that morning that he spoke to her for the first time, and all he said was, "I will be leaving sometime today."

She couldn't get any more information from him, even though she pressed and insisted that he stay until his ribs were healed (_"Only a week or two more, tops!"_ she cried despairingly. He ignored her and rolled gingerly to his side, showing her his back.).

Now that he was alone for the first time in a week, the crushing reality of his situation weighed down on his shoulders. He shook his head and stood unsteadily to his feet. His body was weak and wasting away from lack of movement and malnourishment. He disregarded the fact that he hadn't eaten since he stepped into her flat and made his way to the bathroom.

When he first arrived, Molly insisted that he shower. Embarrassingly, he needed her assistance as he was still in a bit of shock, but Molly dealt with the situation in stride, her doctor instincts kicking in and her stammer and typically awkward behavior was pushed to the side; she dealt with it as if she were washing a body before an autopsy.

Shaking his head from those memories he stepped into her bathroom and disrobed from the too short pajama bottoms and t-shirt that he borrowed from Molly.

He turned on the taps in her tub and waited for the water to heat up. As he waited, he inspected his reflection in her mirror, wincing at the painful and quite colorful bruises that adorned his chest and ribs. He prodded at one and gasped at the pain that engulfed his body. He refused painkillers and drugs, only taking paracetamol and ibuprofen for the first day and a half to help deal with the pain; he wanted his mind clear of drugs because he had to do a lot of thinking, and also, the pain reminded him that he wasn't dead, wasn't in some kind of Hell trapped in Molly Hooper's flat.

When the water was finally scalding, he stepped into the shower and closed the curtain behind him. For a few moments, he stood underneath the hot spray, relishing in the heat, and then he meticulously began washing himself; sitting motionless on a couch while sweating from the pain hardly made him feel clean.

It was as he was gingerly washing his legs, the shower engulfed in the scent of vanilla and lemon and honey that he felt a clench around his heart. He lost his balance and had to sit on the bottom of the tub.

"This isn't my soap!" he shouted, his voice hoarse from lack of use. He glared at the offending bar of soap on her soap dish and the flannel still clutched tightly in his hands. "This is not my soap!" He repeated, hoping someone—anyone was listening.

But he realized no one was listening.

Not John.

Not Mrs. Hudson.

Not even the ever present British Government.

Because everyone thought he was dead.

That's when the first sob tore from his throat.

He struggled then, ignoring the pain that ignited from his ribs and chest as he moved to his feet, rinsing the soap from his body quickly, slamming on the taps until the water was off, and tearing the shower curtain open. He grabbed the towel on the back of the door and dried off, discarding it on the floor. He had to get out of the small space that didn't smell like his soap or his shampoo.

He went into Molly's room, hell bent on finding something to wear. He slammed the door open and turned on the light, heading straight for her wardrobe. He threw open drawers, opened doors, and searched blindly for pajamas bottoms, sweat pants, scrubs, anything that would fit him.

He found nothing. And he wasn't sure if it was because she didn't have anything in his size or if the tears that were steadily pouring from his eyes and clouding his vision caused him to miss the articles of clothing he was looking for.

Unable to breathe and stand on his own and not wanting to collapse on her floor, he moved to her neatly made bed, throwing himself on it. He regretted the decision immediately as he hardly healed body jostled, but he ignored it, curling up tightly, pressing his knees against his chest and wrapping his arms around them. With his head against his knees, he cried.

Here was Sherlock Holmes, the great Consulting Detective, as naked as the day he was born, reduced to base human emotions. If he wasn't wracked with self-loathing and grief over his own death, he would have scoffed at his behavior. But it didn't matter anymore.

He wasn't sure how long he was curled up on Molly Hooper's bed, but he jumped when he felt a pressure on his knee. He lifted his head and wiped at his eyes, before glaring at what appeared to be Toby, Molly's beloved cat, sitting beside him. "Go away," he growled, pushing the cat away before burrowing his head against his knees.

He sighed in annoyance when the cat wouldn't leave him alone, once again pressing his head against his knee. Even though his body protested, he rolled over, wanting nothing more than to finish his cry, find clothes, and go back to the couch to act like nothing happened while Molly was running her errands.

But the cat persisted. First he rubbed against Sherlock's back, and when he showed no interest, he jumped onto him and walked along his body until he perched on his shoulder. Before Sherlock could push the cat off, Toby leaned down and nuzzled his cheek, purring lightly.

He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to ignore the cat, but that didn't work. Toby moved from his shoulder to the bed, all the while purring and nuzzling Sherlock. "What do you want? I know Molly fed you…" Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the cat, wiping his eyes and sniffling. When Toby refused to stop bothering him, Sherlock lifted his hand hesitantly and patted the cats head.

It wasn't long before Sherlock was petting the cat as he comforted him. "I have to leave today," Sherlock said to Toby, his hand running down the sleek feline's back before returning to his head to scratch him behind his ear. "I have a place in West Sussex that Mycroft doesn't even know about." Sherlock ignored the fact that he must look crazy, talking to an animal as if it understood him, but it was better than not talking at all. "I managed to get the homeless network to deliver tins of soup, a bag with clothes, a computer, and a cell phone. I can set up there and begin my research to start tearing down this God forsaken network." He wiped at his eyes and continued to pet the purring cat. "You'll have to watch Molly while I'm gone, Toby." He could feel the tears starting fresh as they burned his eyes. A lump formed in his throat and he tried to swallow. "She's going to have a lot on her plate, dealing with John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. And I know she'll worry about me, constantly. Idiot woman."

Sherlock pressed his face against Toby's side, as if the cat was some sort of shield. He stayed that way until he could stop himself from thinking about his grieving friends, until the tears stopped falling, until his breathing began to even out.

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Molly keyed herself into her flat, struggling with the bags in her hands. "I've got takeaway. I know you probably won't eat, what with this being the biggest case of your career and all, but you need to eat. I don't think you've had more than a few sips of water since you've been here, and I can hear your stomach growling. I also got you some clothes. Nothing—uh fancy, I guess. I umm…didn't know what size jeans you wear, but these should fit. And I think I did well with your shopping. I have soap and shampoo and a shaving kit. And a hat! Oh, yes! I bought a hat and a jacket. Disguises, you know…" Molly rambled as she went into her kitchen, dropping the bags. She turned around and froze in the doorway when she realized Sherlock wasn't on her couch.

"Sherlock?" she croaked, her voice hardly above a whisper. "You did it, didn't you? Left without saying goodbye, without telling me your plan!" She could feel tears burning in her eyes and she glared at the bags that were in her kitchen. She purchased this for naught, then.

Upset, Molly made her way to the bathroom to grab tissue to dab at her eyes. She was surprised to see that he at least showered, not bothering to pick up his discarded clothes or towel. She wiped her face and stared at her reflection, taking a deep breath. She squared her shoulders and narrowed her eyes. "I have to be stronger than this." Even though she felt betrayed, she shook her head. She couldn't expect anything more from the dead detective, could she?

She made her way back to the kitchen, putting away her few groceries and leaving the takeaway on the counter. Then she went through the items she purchased for Sherlock.

It wasn't much of a disguise. Light colored jeans that she knew he would never actually wear, a plain black t-shirt, a black leather jacket, a pack of black socks, a few pairs of underwear, a beanie cap to help hide his recognizable curls, and a pair of second hand converse sneakers. She folded the clothes and stacked the packages neatly and made her way to her bedroom. She made the decision to store these items in the back of her closet, in case Sherlock ever came around again and needed something to wear.

As she stepped into her bedroom, she froze just inside the threshold as she stared at the very naked consulting detective who was clutching Toby to his chest as he slept. She could hear the cat purring from across the room. After shaking her head, she made her way to her bed, carefully placing Sherlock's new belongings near his feet.

It was unmistakable to see that Sherlock had been crying, the tears hardly dried on his cheeks. She sat down slowly on the edge of the bed and began wiping away the tears. "Oh Sherlock…" she breathed, wishing there was more she could do for him. "You are brilliant and strong. You can do this, and you'll come back to us soon." Molly leaned down and hastily pressed a kiss against his temple. "I believe in you," she murmured, pulling away slowly. "And I'll always be here for you."

As she was about to get up from the bed, she felt his hand on her wrist and she looked back at him. His eyes were still closed, but he whispered, "Stay."

Molly gently pried his hand from her wrist. "Let me just turn off the light."

She returned to the bed, slipped out of her jeans, and climbed in, very carefully lying down beside him. He reached for her hand and dragged it so it rested over his heart. "I may seem ungrateful, Molly Hooper, but I know you saved my life."

"It's okay," Molly murmured. She understood that emotional admissions were not his area. "Just don't leave without saying goodbye, okay?" She shifted around until she was holding him, hyperaware of all of his injuries. She cupped his cheek in her hand and smiled softly when he wrapped his arm around her shoulder. "If you need anything—"

"I'll always need you," Sherlock whispered, turning his head so his forehead was pressed against hers. Molly sighed softly and closed her eyes, allowing Sherlock to soak in all the warmth and sentiment she had to offer, knowing he was uncharacteristically seeking solace from her and her cat.

Sherlock gave her one last squeeze before drifting into the sleep that he desperately needed and had been searching for for a week.

Fin.

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BB/N: For some reason this was really difficult to write, so after starting the story a hundred different times, I took a one shot from my 30+ WIP and molded it until it better fit the prompt. Even then, I'm not 100% happy with the outcome, but at least I wrote a little bit this morning!

Thank you for reading this story! :)


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